Aftermath
by A Midnight Dreary
Summary: TAAO-companion-fic.'07 movie-verse. The Decepticons are gone. The Seekers have defected. The Autobots have new allies. Well that's nice. What happens now?
1. Seekers and Sunshine

**7/2/09- Revenge of the Edit: **At the behest of my muses and my beta reader, I have decided to return to this story. This is a series of related oneshots that follow the defection of the Seekers and their attempts to be civil to the Autobots and vice versa. In the timeline of **TAAO**, this story takes place during the second arc, detailing the events taking place on Earth among the Autobots there and their human allies. Old readers should note that this chapter contains brand-new material and a re-read is recommended.

Additionally, if you're a new reader and haven't the faintest clue what I mean when I refer to **TAAO**, then back-track now or go to my profile page and find the story in question, if you're truly curious.

Part One follows shortly after the events of chapter fourteen.

**Previously: **_Ironhide had stalked them_ (the Seekers) _from the medbay to the rec room five corridors down in a fit of paranoia until Optimus sternly ordered the Weapons Specialist back to the Lennoxes for the night and had told Sunstreaker to go with him..._

_

* * *

_

**Aftermath**

Seekers and Sunshine

* * *

William Lennox was a recently promoted Major in the United States Air Force, a member of an Army Rangers unit, and one of the soldiers who had risked life and limb back in Mission City to fight off several giant alien robots with some seriously nasty cannons and the ability to squish you with their feet. He was currently on indefinite leave while everything got shuffled back into order and the upper echelons of the government acclimated itself to the idea that they were not the only intelligent life in the universe after all.

After all the madness of giant, laser-shooting scorpions and a big, metal psychopath out to destroy the world, Will had never been happier to return to the comforting normalcy and relative predictability of civilian life. He had come to enjoy spending time with his wife (naturally) and becoming acquainted with his baby daughter whom he had not seen since a week after her birth. The indefinite leave had been well-deserved indeed, but Will couldn't help but wonder when he was going to return to duty.

He was starting to get bored.

Frankly, Will had expected this. After the wild adrenaline rush that had been his tour of duty both home and abroad with crazy things coming at him one right after the other, the slow pace of civilian life was mind-numbing in comparison. He tried to keep himself occupied; catching up on the going-ons of his siblings and their families and his extended family; running three miles at the crack of dawn; cleaning out the barn and doing house work; and bonding with his daughter.

The bonding part, as it transpired, was not all fun and games.

Now that he was going to be home for some time, Sarah was finally able to return to work full-time. This meant that Will was left alone with Annabelle for at least eight hours a day. This meant that he had to change the poopy diapers, try and wean his daughter off the bottle (she was stubbornly hanging onto it and several times, Will had been showered by bits of strained peas and mashed carrots) and also fish the teething rings out from underneath the couch. Since she was starting to teeth, this was making the five-month infant irritable and prone to crying at the drop of a hat if there wasn't something readily available to chew on.

In the first few days after Sarah had started working full-time again, she had left him complicated instructions on just what he was supposed to do if there was any sort of baby-related accident, particularly because Annabelle was starting to figure out what her limbs were for. And she was a wiggler. She also wasn't going to trust him much because her infantile mind hadn't connected his face as one of her caregivers, so she would probably be crying a lot. Sarah had instructed her husband just to ride it out; this would change the more he took care of the child.

Will had been severely misinformed about this fatherhood-business.

But it was worth it. Annabelle was now always happy to see him, finally categorizing him as a primary caregiver. The house was filled with more silence on a regular basis and Will could actually get her to bed without much fuss.

Just like tonight.

Tonight, Sarah was taking an evening out with some of her friends. Having been reduced to a single mother for a good five months had cut into her social life considerably and now that she had her husband back home, it was easier to keep up with her friends. So she was gone tonight and not for the first time, Will had been left alone with his daughter. But he had gotten her into bed only an hour ago and was back to perusing message boards that ranted about the existence of extra-terrestrials, specifically of the giant robot variety.

He figured he might as well as try and make himself useful by scouring the Internet for any mention of the Autobots or Decepticons and forwarding the links to the appropriate people, who would take it from there.

However, both the FBI and the CIA -- in the interest of national security -- had done a very good job at stripping the Web of such things and it was getting harder and harder to find anything. Will was getting tired of digging through the paranoid blogs and forums that insisted that there were mind-controlling additives in the water system or weird shit like that. It was turning his brain to mush.

Upon his return, he had performed a whole host of housework; things he was pretty sure that Sarah had been deliberately leaving unfinished, just for him. The yard wouldn't need any sort of mowing for at least another week. There was nothing that needed to be painted or repainted and there almost no clutter in the garage to straighten up. Sarah's flowers were watered, the garden didn't need to be weeded and the carpets didn't need to be vacuumed and the floors didn't need to be mopped. He had already cleaned out the barn -- not that there had been a lot to clean out; there had been next to nothing in there. He was finding it harder to keep himself occupied in between taking care of Annabelle.

Lately, Will had found himself plunked down in front of either the TV (those daytime soap operas were terribly addictive) or the computer (it was getting harder to resist the urge to throw a few monkey wrenches at the paranoid bloggers and watch them scramble about for explanations).

In short, he was dreadfully bored.

The only fantastically interesting thing in his life had gone AWOL a few days ago for reasons that had been under-elaborated on.

Will was lost somewhere in his email that contained an update on the situation regarding Fig (he was still in therapy for the injury he had suffered in Qatar, but he was finally expected to be finally out of the hospital as early as next week) when a loud noise finally pulled him out of his cycling thoughts. He was in a room that didn't have a view of the driveway, so he listened instead.

There was the familiar rumbling of the Topkick engine that he had become quite accustomed to hearing. It seemed to have an extra growl to it this time. Following it, however, was the healthy roar of a high-performance engine. The second engine was not what he expected to hear. Will shot from the chair and hurried to the kitchen, which had a very good view of the driveway from the patio doors.

The black Topkick was parked in its usual spot in the driveway, as expected, but the unexpected was the sporty car that was a bright, sunshine yellow, seen even through the dusky gloom. It had parked a good five or six feet away from the Topkick, as though afraid to get near it. Will thought he recognized the design and he wanted to say it was of Italian make, but he wasn't sure. No one stepped out of the car, leading the Major to one conclusion.

It was another Autobot.

About midway through June, Will had been informed by Ironhide that they had gotten themselves a new arrival and just three days prior before the Topkick had taken off again after a hurried explanation that two of their had splashed down on the east coast a week earlier and had just made it across the nation to the state of Nevada. This one had to be one of those arrivals. He went outside the play the good diplomat and he hadn't even set a foot off the patio when the sporty yellow car suddenly surged backwards almost ten feet with squealing tires.

There was a brief moment of silence, then:

"_**What**_," Ironhide's voice was a deep growl. "Is your problem, Sunny?"

"Don't call me that, you cannon-toting slagger!" the yellow car -- 'Sunny' snapped back. "And don't let it touch me! I know what that thing is! Its touch can strip a paint finish! They leak lubricants from every orifice! And their tank purges! I have never seen anything more disgusting!"

"And just why where you watching video of humans purging the contents of their stomachs?" Ironhide asked, though his tone implied that he didn't want to know the answer.

"I had to do **something** while Ratchet had me on enforced bed rest!" the Lamborghini protested mightily. "Their own information network describes them as being messy, meat-creatures!"

A frown fell across Will's face and he crossed his arms, rather offended for various reasons.

"And this 'messy meat-creature' is also not deaf." he said pointedly to the yellow car. "I would appreciate it if you kept your volume down. I got my daughter to bed only an hour ago." He turned to the truck. "Ironhide, who the hell is this?"

Ironhide would probably be wearing an exasperated look, if his tone was anything to go by.

"Major Lennox, this is Sunshine." the Weapons Specialist replied. "A royal pain in my aft."

"Sun-**streaker**." Sunny corrected crankily. "Get it right, Iron-aft."

"Show some respect for your elders, Sunflower." Ironhide retorted, seeming to take great delight in referring to his comrade by everything but his actual name. "And for your information, this is Major William Lennox of the United States Air Force, Army Rangers unit. He fought against Brawl and terminated Blackout in the battle for the AllSpark. Pucker up and kiss some aft, you insubordinate grease-stain."

"You kiss my aft, you out-dated rust bucket." Sunstreaker snarked back, obviously in a highly sour mood.

His engine revved and he turned sharply, spraying the black Topkick with dust and gravel and the tore from the driveway, disappearing around the side of the house. The fading roar of the engine suggested that the yellow Autobot was heading off for parts unknown and quite rapidly at that. Up in her room, Annabelle cried suddenly as the noise woke her and Will darted inside to comfort his daughter back to sleep.

When he emerged about forty-five minutes later with a mug of coffee, Ironhide had transformed to his bipedal mode and was watching the stars flicker to life above them in the night sky. In his childhood, Will had stared at those same stars for hours, sometimes wondering if they were alone in the universe as they appeared to be. It was still amazing to know that Earth wasn't the only planet to harbor life. It just wasn't something that Will had expected to encounter in his lifetime, much less be on the inside of it. He had been quick to obtain permission to tell his wife; this just wasn't something he could keep from her for any length of time. She would have found out sooner or later and it had cut down on a great deal of sneaking around, telling her outright.

"Tell me again who that was?" Will requested, sitting down on the front steps. It put him a far cry from eye level to the Autobot, but Sarah had nearly suffered a heart attack the one and only time she had caught him on the roof when he had been trying to have an eye-to-optic conversation with the mech. He had been made to promise that he wouldn't go climbing the roof again.

"Sunstreaker. He's one of our front-line fighters. Particularly melee combat. Mission City would have been over a lot sooner if he had been there." the Weapons Specialist grumbled. "Ignore him when you can. He would date his own aft if he thought he could get away with it."

"What, is he a narcissist?" Will inquired and received a curt nod in return.

"And exceedingly vain." the black mech added.

"That explains the 'leaking lubricants from every orifice' comment." Will muttered, taking a sip of his coffee. "So what's your beef, big guy? You're normally more talkative than this."

"I was not aware I had any processed bovine meat with me." Ironhide replied, canting a brow ridge questioningly.

"No, no, I mean, what's going on with you." Will corrected, coughing to cover up his amused snicker. The Autobots often took the less easily-explained human sayings literally, resulting in confusion and the conversation being halted for upwards to five minutes to explain. "I can tell that something's happened."

Ironhide snorted so sharply that it sounded for a moment that he had burst a hose or something.

"Slag right something's happened." he grumbled. "Stupid-aft slaggers got asylum, no questions asked... Can't even trust them that they won't stab us in the back when we're not looking. That's something they would do..."

Then he trailed off into a litany of what sounded like insults. Will had never learned Cybertronian and suspected that he never would, but the cursing tone was the same. He waited until Ironhide was done before asking what that was about.

"The Seekers!" the Weapons Specialist burst out angrily and then froze, head tilted to the side, listening. Will listened too, but Annabelle hadn't stirred; she had proven to be a deep sleeper. Then Ironhide went on in a slightly softer, but no less angry voice. "Mission City, the F-22 Raptor. That was Starscream."

"The one we lost track of in the atmosphere right after the battle." Will remembered. He had been involved in the initial debriefing, having been right there at ground zero.

"Yeah well, he ran away and then came back with his trine-mates." Ironhide scowled, putting his chin in one hand. "Slagger couldn't have just stayed away like he should have... "

"Why did he come back?" Will asked.

"The usual." Ironhide shrugged. "Starscream was the second-in-command of the Decepticon army and with Megatron down, it was his job to finish us off."

"Let me guess; he tried, but it didn't work." Will said. Obviously it didn't or else Ironhide wouldn't have been here right now.

"Actually, he didn't even get that far." the old black mech corrected. "Slagger was suffering from recharge-deprivation -- sleep-deprivation." he added after searching for the appropriate term to clear up the Major's confusion. "Couldn't fly a straight line much less hit the broadside of a battle-cruiser."

Will's eyebrows went up.

"Starscream's always got his own agenda. He's a cowardly, back-stabbing, manipulative, aft-kisser who's always looking for an excuse to take down Megatron and assume leadership of the army." Ironhide explained, frowning deeper with each word. "The only reason he never succeeded is because he's no good with contingency plans. Megatron was always six steps ahead of him. The reason he didn't succeed this time -- recharge-deprivation notwithstanding -- was because Megatron couldn't stay dead. He's still alive."

"_What_?!"

Ironhide looked down at the shocked human by his knee and had the grace to look a little sheepish. Probably shouldn't have dropped that bombshell from such a distance.

Will, on the other hand, thought his heart had stopped. He remembered Megatron. The memories were a little hazy -- what with all the missiles and the bullets and the running and the screaming and the falling masonry and the earth-rattling footsteps and the attempts to avoid being squished by mechs who were not necessarily watching where they were putting their feet -- but it was not easy to forget the sense of fear that the great silver mech had exuded like noxious fumes.

"...How?" he asked through a dry throat.

Ironhide waved a hand dismissively, looked disinterested in relating the events.

"It's a long story. Let's just say he wasn't really dead, but in a -- what's that word -- coma?" Ironhide nodded to himself. "He woke up and came back earlier today. We had to beat him off." He rubbed a hand over his right shoulder, which was noticeably duller than the rest of his armor. "Starscream and his slagging wing-mates just up and defected from the Decepticons."

"They defected? Just like that?" Will asked incredulously. "Do you know why?"

Judging from what he had learned, Decepticons didn't have a large capacity for compassion or mercy. Megatron had seemed ready to kill indiscriminately; throwing aside anything in his way just to reach Optimus Prime; be it a car or a person. It hadn't mattered to him. Hearing that a Decepticon had defected was probably just as surprising to him as it was to the Autobots.

Ironhide shook his head. "I don't know the reasons why, but it's got something to do with Skyfire -- just picked him up today." the black mech added. "After the fight, Megs took the others and ran off planet. Left the Seekers behind and they came to us asking for help."

And Optimus, being the sort of person that he was, had granted them asylum, Will guessed. He let the words settle in his mind and be processed. Some Decepticons had defected. And just how many had defected? It couldn't have been more than two or three and they obviously weren't causing any trouble, otherwise Ironhide wouldn't be here.

In Will's opinion (though not terribly informed as it was, because he had never encountered a defector before), having the enemy lose even one of its members was something of a good thing. It was one less fighter that the enemies had and one less enemy that **they** had to worry about.

Although, there was some worry to be had. Defectors could reveal themselves to be spies in reality; playing a pity card to get on the good side of the commanding officers and then extract some top-secret information; found out just a moment too late. Maybe those Decepticons were faking the side-switch in order to get inside information; which was probably what Ironhide was worried about.

Or maybe they had really, truly, honestly switched sides.

Not that Will could make any off-the-cuff accusations; he obviously missing a very big chunk of the story. And this had just happened too, by the sound of things. Only time would show what happened next.

Oh, and N.B.E-1, a.k.a. Megatron, was still alive.

Couldn't forget that.

"You do realize that this is something that I'm going to have to report, right?" Will asked.

"That's why I told you." Ironhide admitted.

* * *


	2. Networks and Nutjobs

**Revenge of the Edit- 7/3/09:**** Aftermath** is getting a make-over. If you are joining me again, the previous chapter has received a make-over. This chapter has been completely and utterly rewritten. It is not the same.

Why am I doing this instead of the third arc? Well, this directly affects the third arc in terms of small events and character interactions. So enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** _Transformers_ is property of HasTak and some other companies whose names elude me.

* * *

**Aftermath**

Networks and Nutjobs

* * *

Seymour Reginald Simmons loved the Fourth of July. It was the one day out of the year where he could turn off his cell phone and not get reprimanded for it. It was the one day out of the year where he could kick back, put his heels up and enjoy a hot dog with everything on it and not be bothered about aliens on the loose or some nutjob attempting to hack Sector Seven's database. Not there was a Sector Seven database to be hacked anymore. That branch of the government had been hastily dissolved; half its members being shunted into other departments; a quarter of them turned out into regularly society to make their own way; the other quarter stuck in some kind of limbo while the government tried to figure out what to do with him.

Simmons was among that number stuck in limbo. He knew far too much about the N.B.E.s to be unleashed back into normal, functioning society like an everyday person and he sure as hell wasn't going to end up working for his mother in her deli. He was too important to be carelessly stuck behind a desk and forgotten about and frankly, Simmons wasn't going to **let** himself be stuck behind a desk. Not without a fight. And the government knew that.

For now, they had given him a generous severance package to cover his time spent unemployed, encouraged him to make the most of his impromptu vacation and maybe spend some time with his family.

Simmons didn't have a wife or kids. He wasn't sure if he wanted to combine his genetics with anyone else's, much to his mother's consternation. She would call him up once or twice a month to ask him if he was married yet and if not, was he gay and not telling? This always caused him to end the call as quickly as was polite. After all, Ma had four little girls to squeeze out grandchildren for her. As the only son born to his parents, it had been Simmons's job to carry on the family business with Sector Seven, as decreed by the well-meaning but still somewhat misogynistic Walter Simmons. Reggie Simmons hadn't and still didn't feel any pressing need to create some spawn of his own.

He always spent the Fourth of July with his kid sister and her family. Giselle had married a man whom Simmons considered reliably insane but he supposed that his sister wouldn't have settled for anyone different. Anyways, her kids were adorable enough. The oldest son was a complete whacko, even at the age of three, when Simmons had first met his nephew. The kid had gone bonkers when Simmons had first told him that he had worked for the government. The kid had spent every subsequent visit trying to discern his uncle's exact occupation and had been bang on the money three times. Not that Simmons had ever given him any confirmation. But he considered telling the now-twenty-year old kid one day. Regarding his theory behind the destruction at Mission City, the boy had been startlingly accurate.

Again, not that Simmons was going to confirm his nephew's suspicions any time soon.

At his sister's house was where Simmons found himself on the balmy Fourth of July evening, a Coors in one hand as he lounged on the deck with his brother-in-law searing brauts and burgers on the grill. Giselle was in the kitchen behind him cutting up tomatoes and onions for the burgers. His two nephews were out in the open area behind the house, preparing to launch off a few (illegal) fireworks.

Between the mouthwatering smell of the grilled meat and the sound of the fireworks whistling into the air and the pleasant coolness of the aluminum can on the back of his hand, Simmons had to admit that he was enjoying his extended vacation. There were no phone calls, no expectations, no people demanding his attention and more importantly, he hadn't seen or hear about an N.B.E. in weeks.

He settled lower in the weather-worn armchair and closed his eyes, a contented smile on his face. Life -- was good.

From the kitchen, the phone rang.

It wouldn't be for him. Probably just one of his other sisters. He ignored it and breathed in the smell of charred cow-meat.

"Reggie!" Giselle was holding the portable in her hands, halfway onto the deck. "Reggie, the phone. For you. It's someone named 'Banachek'."

"Damn." Simmons reluctantly abandoned his seat and took the phone from his sister. "This had better be something that can't wait." he told the man as he made his way into the house to find a private spot. "There's a medium-rare burger with everything that's got my name on it."

"_Sorry to interrupt your holiday, Simmons,_" Banachek started from his new office somewhere in the Pentagon. "_But the news just came through. You're being reassigned._"

"Finally." Simmons breathed. As much as he had enjoyed his extended vacation, it would be nice to return to a real job. "Where am I? CIA? FBI? Military intelligence?"

"_You're the new director of NET._" Banachek replied.

"Never heard of it." Simmons said flatly.

"_It's brand new. The proposal was approved of only last week._" Banachek explained. "_I'm the liaison to NET here in the Pentagon, but you are the on-site director._"

"I see. And just what does my new job entail?" Simmons asked. He was curious, even if it wasn't heard in his voice. Would he still get his lovely 'Do-whatever-I-want-and-get-away-with-it' badge?

"_NET stands for 'Networked Elements: Transformers.'_" Banachek said. "_'Transformers' is the code-name for the N.B.E.s._"

Simmons was quiet for the barest of seconds.

"No." he said.

"_Simmons--_"

"No." the man repeated. "I've had my fill of the N.B.E.s. I don't like them and I can guarantee that they don't like me either. I'm not getting involved with them again. Find someone else! I can live with my sister for a little while longer!"

"Like hell you will!" Giselle hollered from the kitchen.

"Just cut the tomatoes, Elle!" Simmons hollered back before he retreated further into the depths of the house so his family could not overhear. "Tom, I cannot and will not even attempt to keep some alien robots from wrecking this planet. There has got to be someone else who can do this job."

"_Reggie, out of all the former Sector Seven agents, you're the one who has had the most contact with the N.B.E.s. There _**is**_ no one else._" Banachek said in a voice that sounded patient but it had the undertone to it that said he was going to lose that patience quickly.

"Contact? N.B.E.-01 spent the entire time frozen and Skitterbug wasn't exactly a friendly one." Simmons reminded him. "And N.B.E.-05 peeled the roof off my car. I never got compensation for that. No nets for me. Thanks but no thanks."

The line was silent for a moment.

"_Reggie, do you know what happened in Utah on the twenty-eighth of June?_" Banachek finally asked.

"Is this something that I'm supposed to know about?" Simmons asked, leaning against the wall. He examined the priceless Ming vase that was perched on the end table. Good lord, that thing should have been in a museum!

"_Now? Yes._" Banachek said. "_Two weeks ago, all contact with Hill Air Force Base was lost. There are still no known survivors. It was SOCCENT all over again, only this time, any attempts to recon were met with swift termination. All roads to and from the base were booby-trapped._"

Ooh... Simmons definitely hadn't heard about that. Though it likely hadn't made the news. He didn't recall seeing anything about it in any paper.

"_On June twenty-eighth between 1400 hours and 1600 hours, Mountain time, there was a disturbance in the Salt Lake desert. Reports came in that all identified N.B.E.s had engaged in combat, including a number of N.B.E.s that we have not seen before. The situation was defused before too long by the N.B.E.s themselves, but one of them fits the description of N.B.E.-01._"

Simmons felt his blood go cold. N.B.E.-01 was dead. Blasted into pieces by N.B.E.-05 and dropped at the bottom of the Laurentian Abyss with full-time submarine surveillance pending; last he had heard.

"_At 2100 hours Pacific time, NASA satellites went off-line from what officials believe was an EM pulse. There was also a string of power outages starting in Kansas and leading in to northern Nevada, ending north of Tranquility. The SecDef was informed the following day that the N.B.E.s had brought their ship down from its lunar orbit. They had obtained permission to do so earlier in the month._" Banachek finished. "_Keller was just able to keep the president from going berserk, but the N.B.E.s have no official representation here on Earth._"

"What about the Witwicky kid?" Simmons asked in a bored tone. "The N.B.E.s like him."

"_Mr. Samuel Witwicky is still a minor and more to the point, he's still in high school._" Banachek pointed out calmly. "_He can't be appointed any sort of government position until he turns eighteen; something that will _**not**_ be happening until February seventeenth of next year. You're the only man we've got, Reggie._"

"I'm not doing it, Tom." Simmons reiterated. "There has to be someone else."

Banachek sighed. "_Are you sure you won't? Because the next person on the list is Richard Galloway._"

"You're kidding, right?" Simmons sincerely hoped that he was kidding. He hated Galloway. Everyone hated Galloway.

National Security Advisor Richard Galloway was, in Simmons's opinion, the last person who should be let anywhere near the N.B.E.s. He wasn't incompetent; he did his job well, but he was the sort of man who couldn't see the forest for the trees; picky about the small details that a normal person would have overlooked. He fussed a great deal over even the smallest infractions on minor regulations. The man irritated the hell out of Simmons, who liked to bend the rules on occasion. If Galloway was left in charge of the N.B.E.s, the robots wouldn't know which way to turn their heads if they had to sneeze.

No, Galloway most certainly could not be allowed anywhere near the aliens or northern Nevada.

"Where do I need to be and when do I need to be there?" Simmons asked resignedly. They might as well do this inter-galactic relationship business properly and it **would** probably be best left in his hands.

"_A car will be picking you up from your sister's house bright and early tomorrow morning at 0500._" Banachek said, secretly pleased with himself. He knew Simmons would do a good job with this. "_Good luck, Director Simmons._"

"Yeah..." was all Simmons could say before he ended the call. "Dear god, my life is crap."

* * *

They were calling it 'Camp Furman'.

Simmons wanted to know who had come up with that name. He wanted to know who to smack.

Camp Furman had been hastily erected a good six miles from the northern boundary of Tranquility, set on the edge of six dried-up lakes out of sight from civilization. The camp consisted of four prefab Quonset shelters, two set on each side of a pathway marked out by bright orange flags. Two military jeeps sat parked outside of one of the shelters, along with someone's white Saturn Vue (if the baby seat in the back was any indication, it belonged to Lennox) and a black Kia Optima. The line of cars was soon joined by a third military jeep that Simmons has gotten his ride in.

Sunglasses sitting firmly on his nose, he examined the dreary-looking place and immediately knew that, for a while, he was going to hate it here. Given that the camp had been set up just a mere three days ago, it still lacked a lot of the basic amenities like plumbing and electricity. Especially plumbing. In lieu of a real bathroom, there were four pit toilets and a folding TV tray with anti-bacterial lotion-like stuff set up behind one of the shelters. Electric lanterns were hung from the ceilings of the shelters; turned off when not in use.

As the newly-appointed Director of NET, Simmons knew that it was going to be his job to get this place up to code as soon as possible. He already knew his first task. Plumbing for a bathroom and at the very least, a generator for electricity.

Maybe some trees too. This place looked like a wasteland.

Three of the shelters were currently unoccupied, but the fourth had been turned into the command center. It held one laptop running on its batteries, a topographical map of the immediate area taped up on the wall, and lawn chairs set around a portable table that held a neat stack of file folders and the aforementioned laptop. Inside, he found Major Lennox and only two other members of his unit; Master Sergeant Epps and Staff Sergeant Reed.

Camp Furman didn't have anything remotely resembling a barracks. It was Simmons's understanding that these three members were the only three members of the unit in question that lived anywhere near the area. Lennox actually lived on the far south side of Tranquility. Reed was a Vegas boy (bunking in his commanding officer's guest bedroom) and Epps came from some nearby ass-end-of-nowhere town that Simmons had never heard of before. The rest of the unit was scattered hither and yon across the contiguous United States.

At his entrance, Lennox and Epps gave rather stiff and almost forced salutes. Reed had driven Simmons to the camp.

"Oh god... Don't do that." Simmons requested, waving a hand at them. He wasn't used to people saluting him.

"With all due respect, sir, your new position did come with the rank of Brigadier General." Lennox reminded him, falling into parade-rest position.

"Doesn't mean I want to be saluted." Simmons said. "Look, I don't like you and you don't like me. We've already established that. You threatened to shoot me. But I'm not going to argue with the United States government. They think I'm the best person for this job."

"Dunno where they got that idea..." Epps muttered.

"If you find out, let me know." Simmons said to him. "Thing is, we're all stuck together like one big happy family. So let's keep the guns in the holsters and our heads screwed on the right way, yeah? Can we do that much? 'Cause getting angry at each other isn't going to help the N.B.E.s."

"Autobots." Lennox corrected with a minute roll of his eyes.

"I'm working up to it." Simmons said. He clapped his hands. "Alright, let's get down to business." he said brightly. He snapped open the portfolio he had placed on the table and extracted three things. "Gentlemen, these are your new badges. The ribbon denotes your security clearance. Black means you're cleared for N.B.E. interaction. Keep those in sight at all times."

Lennox briefly toyed with the ribbon attached to the back of the badge before clipping it to the front of his shirt.

"Secondly, this place," Simmons twirled his index fingers through the air. "This place oughta be condemned. What are we looking at in terms of supplies and how quick do they expect us to get the death-trap up to speed?"

"They've given us to the end of the month to set up basic facilities." Lennox replied.

"I want running water and real electricity by the end of the week." Simmons ordered. "Think you can manage that?"

"Yessir." Lennox said. His face twitched, like saying that had caused him a great deal of pain.

"Now, I just got informed of my new job last night and I haven't had the chance to get caught up with everything that's happened since the twenty-eighth of June." Simmons went on. "Is there a sit-rep for me?"

Lennox immediately took three sheets of paper off the top of the stack on the table behind him.

"This covers everything from the twenty-eighth up to now." he said.

Simmons skimmed through the report. It was so neat and concise that he didn't need to do more than skim. Whoever had written this had obviously been writing reports for most of their life. When he reached the end of it, he looked up at Lennox.

"Everything in this really happened?" he asked.

"Yessir." There was that twitch again.

"Well," Simmons shrugged absently. "These guys really are nutjobs."

* * *


	3. Allies and Alleys

**A/N:** This one didn't pull itself together quite as well as I hoped it would, but it provides a good bridge to later events. We're probably going to be seeing a lot of the humans for a bit.

**Disclaimer:** _Transformers_ is property of HasTak and some other companies whose names elude me.

* * *

**Aftermath**

Allies and Alleys

* * *

Simmons had nicked the keys to one of the jeeps and was currently taking it for a joyride inside the _Ark_, searching for the N.B.E.s. The GPS failed to work once inside the alien spaceship, as he had expected, but that didn't matter. The jeep had a full tank of gas in it and there was just something about driving a jeep through the impossibly large corridors of an even larger alien spaceship.

There was a part of him that was still seven-years old and liked to fling mud at girls. It was busy going: _WHEEE!! GIANT ROBOTS!_

Every so often, Simmons would press his fist against the horn, announcing his presence to the entirety of the ship. The tires would squeal on the metal floors every time he took a corner too sharply. He was seriously liking the speed limit he saw here. Or rather, the lack of a speed limit.

Hopefully, N.B.E.-05 wouldn't peel the roof off the car again. This wasn't his car, but that wasn't the point. Funds for a replacement were likely to come out of NET's bank account and Simmons didn't yet know what was in that bank account.

He leaned back in the seat and let off the gas a little when it occurred to him that he had gotten himself rather lost. But the N.B.E.s would be real quick to direct him back to the exit, so that was nothing to worry about.

Speaking of the N.B.E.s...

Something large and colored red and blue flickered into sight of the rear-view mirror, accompanied by footsteps that shook the floor. Simmons felt it even through the wheels and he eased onto the brakes. When he reached another corner, he executed a three-point turn and headed back the way he had come.

Optimus Prime must have been something of a politician back in the days before their war had begun, Simmons decided. The thirty-foot robot had this look on his face; one of disapproval combined with a healthy dose of respect for the opposing party and Simmons could just detect a hint of dislike. But the Autobot commander was much too disciplined to let it show.

"Good morning!" Simmons called out cheerily once the car had been halted. He had been sure to put a good ten to fifteen feet of space between himself and the robot, just in case. Then he stood up in the seat, leaning against the bars.

"Simmons." Prime nodded in acknowledge. "We were informed of your arrival. And of your recent reassignment."

"I don't like it any more than you do." Simmons assured him. "But you would have hated Galloway even more. Trust me when I say that you're getting off easy."

"Please get to your point." Prime requested in a tired sounding voice.

Simmons frowned inwardly. He had been hoping to get a good session of snarky banter in this morning, but it appeared that he wasn't going to get that. He did have a lot of things to do today (calls to make and find some reliable people who could keep their mouths shut to start laying in water pipes and power lines; a lot, really) and he supposed that N.B.E.-05 hadn't been having a field day either; if everything from the sit-rep had a lick of truth to it.

"I've read the report." Simmons gestured to the new manila folder in the passenger's seat. "I don't think I fully understand it."

"You want me to explain it." Prime stated.

"Would you? The writer was good at glossing over the details while making it seem like nothing was being left out." Simmons said. "I bow to their genius." he added sarcastically.

"I'm sure Prowl will be flattered by your admiration." Prime said. "What would you like me to explain?"

Now they were getting somewhere.

"The report stated that -- that three Decepticons -- three of **your** enemies and therefore, three of ours -- defected -- 'due to the discovery of extensive subliminal methods of re-education coupled with considerable mental fatigue'." Simmons read word for word. He frowned. "It's the 'subliminal methods of re-education' part that gets to me."

"'Virus chip' sounded silly." spoke a second voice from behind him. Simmons looked over his shoulder at the newcomer; a black and white N.B.E. with a red chevron and panels protruding from its back like wings. The doors of the alternate mode, just like N.B.E.-02.

"This is Prowl, my second-in-command." Prime said.

"Reggie Simmons. Former agent of Sector Seven and newly-appointed director of NET: an organization designed to keep you lot hidden in plain sight. Hi there." The former agent waved a hand in greeting. "Now what was that about a virus chip?"

"The Seekers-- You are aware of who the Seekers are?" Prowl inquired.

"I read the report. F-22s. Mission City. Non-Decepticons."

Prowl nodded. "Megatron -- N.B.E.-01 to you -- used, shall we say, inhumane methods of ensuring that the Seekers would be willing to fight on his side. He had them implanted with a behavioral modification patch that contained a Trojan virus that heightened aggression levels and inhibited the more merciful qualities of the mech's personalities. In more familiar terms, he brainwashed them."

Simmons contemplated the words.

"See, this is why we should have kept N.B.E.-01 frozen solid." he said after a moment. "But are you sure you've made the right move? I mean, defected or not, you've still got three former enemies in your base. Which is only two miles from Camp Furman."

"We are well aware of the dangers, Director Simmons." Prowl replied before Optimus could even think up a reply. "However, given the circumstances under which the Seekers defected, we felt that it would be more prudent to analyze them first before condemning them to the guillotine, as it were. I'm sure you can understand that."

"Is that so? The only information I've got regarding those circumstances are..." Simmons peered at the three-page report again. "'Extensive subliminal methods of re-education coupled with considerable mental fatigue'. You're going to have to be more specific. Are the Seekers going to cause any problems? How can we -- the human race -- be assured that they aren't going to run amuck and destroy Vegas?"

"The Seekers' wing-leader, Starscream, is currently incapacitated and he poses no danger to anyone." Prime said. "At this present time, the remaining two Seekers are reluctant to even leave the medical bay." he explained patiently. "I am not familiar with relationship between the three of them, but I imagine they will stay put until they can be assured that their wing-mate will be fine. On top of that, our medic will not allow anyone under his care to come to harm." he added, images of Ratchet wielding a wrench flashing through his CPU.

"So we're not going to have any problems from them." Simmons said, really looking for a straight answer here. Prowl was definitely good as talking without really saying anything.

"It is still too early to say." Prowl replied. "Starscream has undergone rather drastic personality reconditioning and he has been that way for the better part of his life; two hundred and sixty of our vorns; roughly equivalent of ten of your years, at minimum. The remaining two Seekers -- Thundercracker and Skywarp -- are in considerably better condition than their wing-leader, both physically and mentally, but they too have recently undergone some traumatic events."

"The Seekers chose to defect for three reasons; the first one being that they needed our help; coming to us under a white flag. And the second reason turned out to be that an old and very good friend of theirs whom they believed to be dead for a long time was discovered alive and safe among our ranks." Prime explained. "The virus was the third reason, added to the fact that they had essentially been coerced into joining the Decepticons' ranks. The chips had been implanted _without_ their knowledge."

Even before he had finished, Simmons was giving the Autobot commander a rather incredulous look.

"Okay... Let's see if I understand this correctly. The -- Seekers had a microchip in their heads that contained this virus. And this virus changed the way they acted -- making them violent and aggressive and wanting to fight? But now the virus had been removed and they're -- nicer..." the NET Director said.

The whole situation sounded just plain ridiculous; like it had come straight from the pages of a bad sci-fi novel. The enemy had actually been brainwashed! And now with the brainwashing influence broken, they suddenly went over to the good side! Yep, this definitely sounded like a plot of a classic, but bad sci-fi story.

He wondered if his fellow humans shared that opinion.

"That is the case." Prime affirmed in a rumbling voice.

"It sounds ridiculous." Simmons told the mech in a no-nonsense tone. "But this is something I'm going to have to take at your word, isn't it. 'Cause I wasn't there. Hell, I just found about all this an hour ago."

This caused Prime to exchange a look with Prowl, who was a bit confused. He had only heard about Simmons before by word of mouth and his fellow Autobots seemed to have judged the man based on his treatment of Bumblebee and the Witwicky boy. He wasn't quite an ally, but it would be foolish to consider him an enemy. He was the man now responsible for keeping their presence hidden from the entire world.

Prowl felt a mild strain of sympathy for the man.

"Now about NBE-01..."

"The word you have for his then-condition is 'coma'." Prowl put in before Simmons could finish the statement. "He was in a coma. After the altercation in the Utah desert, he fled the planet with the remainder of his troops. We defeated them quite soundly and they do not have their medics. I believe that they will be gone for some time."

Simmons felt like he had just been suddenly punched in the gut. So it was true then. That monster who had been frozen in the basement of the Hoover Dam for over seventy years was still alive.

Goddammit, were these things even capable of staying dead?

At least he wasn't on the planet anymore.

"But he might be back." Simmons said, more to himself.

"Indeed, Megatron will be back one day." the Autobot commander said, not realizing that Simmons was just thinking out loud. "The war is still not over as long as he is still alive."

"You sure 'bout that?" Simmons asked. "Him coming back?"

"Of that I have no doubts." Optimus answered. "Megatron is ambitious and greedy, which is often a very bad combination. Once he has something, he does not like to give it up. The Seekers were the three best soldiers Megatrons had in his army and he has now lost a formidable force on the battlefield. I believe he might try to coerce them into returning, in addition to coming back to defeat me."

"Alright, big guy." Simmons raised his hands. "I don't know what kind of leeway the SecDef has given you guys, but I'm reminding you that you **are** on American soil. Immediate notification of things of this nature would be appreciated in the future. I _really_ don't like finding out second-hand and a day late."

"My apologies, Simmons." Prime ducked his head briefly. "Answering to another party for my actions in war-times is not something I've had to do for a some time. I suppose you could say that I'm out of practice."

"Well, get back in practice. You're probably going to be running a lot of things by me in the future." Simmons said. "I also need a few things from you. Personnel files, if you've got them. Government wants your names on a list somewhere."

"We'll send you the files shortly." Prime promised. "While you're here, would you like to meet the Seekers?"

Then Simmons swore up and down that he saw a glint of mischief in those optics.

"No, no. I'm good. Thanks, but -- no." he said, plopping back down on the driver's seat. "I've got work to do; calls to make; so if you could just point me to the exit..."

_If they were trying to get rid of me, it worked._ He thought as he followed the directions back to the exit. He really didn't want to meet the Seekers. Not yet. The good robots made him twitchy; the formerly bad ones just might give him a case of Tourette's.

Simmons also really did wonder just how much he was going to be responsible for. He didn't have a desk yet (or even an office), but he imagined that there was a stack of -- of stuff waiting for him. As it currently stood, Lennox and his team were all those who were on the personnel list. And it wasn't even ten people. There was a list of recommendation sitting somewhere in the stack of stuff that was waiting for him. And there was a handful of his old Sector Seven buddies that he could probably convince into joining him out here in Camp Deathtrap.

More importantly, he knew that he was going to have to keep the N.B.E.s under wraps. Keep off the radars and satellites; think up excuses for their presences if they accidentally revealed themselves. Well, the Hungry Dragon business had worked well enough the first two times. Who was to say that it wouldn't work a third time?

Maybe Banachek had been right. Covering up alien occupation on Planet Earth? That was exactly what he had done with Sector Seven. This job was right up his alley after all.

* * *


	4. Daisies and Decisions

**A/N:** My first time writing Maggie Madsen. It occurred to me that she was nowhere to be seen in _Revenge of the Fallen_. Her or Glen, for that matter. We might be seeing more of him.

I'm sure you've all noticed by now that every title has been alliteration. Why alliteration? Well, I'm challenging myself. I want to see how creative I can get.

**Disclaimer:** _Transformers_ is property of HasTak and some other companies whose names elude me.

* * *

**Aftermath**

Daisies and Decisions

* * *

Never before in her life had Maggie Madsen hated sunlight so much.

She didn't make it a habit of going out to a pub for a few drinks with some friends. She wasn't someone who could drink their weight in their alcohol and be fresh as a daisy the next morning. No, she was the sort of person who ended up puking on the curb by glass number five. She couldn't hold her liquor at all.

Since three drinks was enough to get her completely soused, she limited herself to that amount, drank slowly, and ate the munchies provided to offset some of the effects of the hangover. Even so, there was a still a sour, rotten feeling in her stomach and a headache with the weight of a brick resting on the base of her skull when she woke up the next morning.

The sunlight was merciless in its attempts to strip her of her eyesight; shining right through her window. She hadn't closed the blinds. She hadn't even thought about it. Her memories of last night were fuzzy. She remembered being convinced by her work-mates that the only right way to celebrate the birthday of the United States was to get plastered. She remembered accepting the offer, because she hadn't had a proper night out in weeks. She had been busy assisting in cleaning up the mess that had been left behind by the alien robots; getting world communications back online and such. She had been working hard. She had deserved a little time to unwind.

So out she had gone. It had been a good night. Everyone had been in a celebratory mood; there had been fireworks exploding all over the capital and Maggie herself had been feeling rather festive. She had lowered her defenses a little more than usual, needing a sense of normalcy in her life, which had been upset several different ways since the alien attack.

Everything had gotten a bit warped around the edges by the time she had finished her first glass. Memory really fizzled out around glass number four.

If she had done anything to embarrass herself in front of all her work-mates...

At least, she reflected, she was alone in her bed. She hadn't done anything stupid like -- bring home one of her work-mates.

Maggie squeezed her eyes shut and groped blindly for the string to lower the shades. It should have been right above her head -- right-- there it was. With a sharp ***razz*** that sounded like a chainsaw to her ears, the shades fell down, casting a blessed dimness across the room.

Ah, that was better.

Now if she could do something about that noise...

_Mobile..._

That was her mobile phone making that noise.

Feeling that about ten extra pounds had been stuck to her head overnight, Maggie squinted her eyes open and looked around her apartment as if she was seeing it for the first time.

It was a small studio apartment that she had been renting for a while. When she had first moved to the States, this apartment had been the only thing that wouldn't violently murder her bank account. When she had finally gotten the job she had come looking for, she had told herself that she was going to get a new, better, larger apartment. As a matter of fact, she told herself this at least once a week. It just -- didn't happen.

She suspected, deep down, that she didn't feel any sort of motivation to move house. This apartment was in a good neighborhood and she felt safe to go outside at night; there was a convenience store within reasonable walking distance and it wasn't far from the bus stop either. The rent wasn't atrocious and all the utilities were in good repair. The other people who lived in the building were courteous of each other and there had been no complaints about noise.

So... No, there hadn't been much motivation to find a new apartment.

Maggie threw the blankets aside and staggered out of bed, her feet dragging on the clothes she had thrown to the floor last night. Looking down at herself, she discovered that she had still had the presence of mind the night before to properly dress herself for bed; a worn tank-top and a pair of pajama pants.

Eyes half shut, she felt her way along the bed and then towards the section of the apartment that passed as the dining room; the table in particular where she dimly remembered dropping her purse. The mobile continued to ring like a police siren right inside her head, guiding her in the right direction. Whoever her caller was, they were either very patient or the really needed to talk to her and therefore would not hang up until they were certain she was not going to answer.

She fumbled with the zippers, looking for the evil device and wondering why it was not where she left it when she recalled that she was the one who was looking in the wrong spot. The mobile was exactly where she had left it. Feeling a bit dumb, she yanked it out and peered at the "Unknown caller" that wrote itself across the LED screen.

"Bloody..." Maggie hissed and finally answered the call. "H'llo?..."

"_Miss Madsen, I presume._" came a professional voice that was entirely too upbeat for her liking. It was too early-- Wait, it was almost noon. Bah! Still too early for complicated comprehension.

"Yes..."

"_You might remember me from a few weeks ago; Agent Simmons of Sector Seven. Am I -- interrupting anything?_"

"What? No, not at all." Maggie said, distractedly running her free hand through her hair. "Can I do something...?"

"_You remember the N.B.E.s, don't you Miss Madsen?_" Simmons asked.

The words sent a series of images through Maggie's still half-inebriated mind, most of them consisting of some walking salad-shooter that shot bladed CDs. Did she remember? How could she **forget**?

"What about them?" she asked.

"_Just last week, a new government department was formed. NET._"

"What?" Maggie still wasn't comprehending at full capacity.

"_Networked Elements: Transformers. Try to keep up with acronyms._" Simmons said. "_The point is, NET is so newly formed that there are only four people on staff, myself included. We have a real need for code-breakers and analysts such as yourself, Miss Madsen. Perhaps you'd be interested?_"

Maggie just blinked in response.

"_I feel it's only fair to warn you that you might be working closely with the N.B.E.s and should you accept, you _**will**_ have to move to Tranquility, Nevada. We'll need you on-site._"

"Um..."

"_You don't need to decide right away. You've got until the end of the month to make your choice. Just call Tom Banachek at the Pentagon by the end of the month. Say 'Yes' and you'll get the details. Say 'No' and we never had this conversation. Got that?_"

"Uh..."

_Good._

***click***

It was a full minute before Maggie had the presence of mind to turn off the phone and put it back in her purse. She ran her fingers through her disheveled hair again, absently noting that she still smelled faintly cigarette smoke and wondering if a shower was going to be too much trouble.

The N.B.E.s? Other than the walking salad-shooter, she hadn't had contact with the rest of the alien robots -- not counting that frozen behemoth and the smaller yellow one. A little shaken up by the whole experience, she had taken refuge further in the Hoover Dam until the good robots had gone on their way. She remembered Simmons too, but he was another one of those things that was hard to forget. Images of a grown man going after that little bastard with a flame-thrower while shouting: "Burn you little sucker!" was something that stuck with you.

The idea of getting anywhere near those things again...

There went the cold shiver right down her spine.

Mission City had seen better days. She had seen the pictures on the news of the aftermath. Only about ten square blocks of the city had been wrecked in the fighting, but the sheer amount of destruction on those poor ten blocks...

They were robots.

They were giant robots.

They were giant, **alien** robots.

With guns.

Big guns.

Really big guns.

It took a special kind of person not to run screaming away from that. Maggie didn't feel that that she was the sort of person wouldn't run away screaming at the top of her lungs. Meeting giant alien robots wasn't exactly something that was on her To-Do list.

Additionally, she wasn't really looking for a new job. There was plenty for her to do right here. There was still a lot of clean-up left for her to help take care of--

And what was that she had said about finding a new apartment?

Take the new job and work alongside giant alien robots in an environment that was more than likely going to be hazardous to her health or stay here in D.C. where she knew for certain that the only real danger came from overstressed work-mates and idiot drivers would couldn't figure out what the brake pedal was for.

Maggie shook her head as sharply as the hangover would allow. She had a month to think about it. No reason to make a decision just yet.

* * *


	5. Flashbacks and Freaking Out

**A/N:** I'm not following _Revenge of the Fallen_ when it comes to things regarding Mikaela's father, because I like the version I created here. Probably going to be taking liberties with some of the smaller details as well.

As the title suggests, the story is interspersed with short flashbacks about my take on what happened to land Mikaela in juvie. I probably took some serious liberties with Nevada state law, but I figured that **something** had to happen.

Also, it's going to be a while before I incorporate any more elements of _Revenge_. Seriously, there's this big mushroom cloud-shaped plot hole, if you really look. If you really, really try to document the passage of time between the Fallen's-- er, fall, and when the Autobot/Decepticon war started, you'll find that plot hole. The Fallen was on Earth in 17,000 B.C. The AllSpark reached Earth some 3,000 years prior to the 07-movie, if I remember right. Either way, for a race of nigh-immortal robots, that's not a long gap. It's like their society went nuclear overnight.

**Disclaimer:** _Transformers_ is property of HasTak and some other companies whose names elude me.

* * *

**Aftermath**

Flashbacks and Freaking Out

* * *

"_Daddy?"_

"_Yeah Miki?"_

"_Why do we take people's cars? I mean, don't they get angry when they find out that they don't have their car anymore?"_

"_They do, but Miki, you have to understand. These people -- They aren't taking very good care of their cars. When we take them and fix them, we return the cars in better condition than when they were left."_

"_What about the cars that don't get fixed? Do the people get them back?"_

"_Well, I'm afraid that's where people aren't very understanding. They think it's bad; what we do."_

"_Is that why you and Mom don't talk anymore? Because she thinks it's bad too?"_

"_Yeah."_

* * *

It was eight in the morning and Mikaela was eating breakfast when it happened.

Her mother was getting ready to leave for work, as she usually did on the weekdays when it wasn't a holiday. Cathy Banes was something of a workaholic. She believed that true success and happiness came from an honest job well done and that there was no substitute for it. She barely approved of Mikaela's part-time job at the local car shop ("Mechanics aren't the right career path for a young lady!"), but she put up with it as Mikaela used the hard-earned money to pay for the gas and insurance for her Vespa. She was showing responsibility and if nothing else, her mother approved of that.

Or rather, Mikaela was paying for the repairs on her Vespa; Barricade had half-squished the poor thing in his effort to take down both Sam and Bumblebee at the same time. Insurance had taken care of a chunk of the cost, but she was still slowly paying off the other half.

So there she was on that Friday morning, eating her breakfast and minding her own business when she heard the front door open. Her mother made an exasperated sigh at the uninvited house guest and from the whiff of motor oil that filtered its way into the kitchen, Mikaela guessed that the visitor was her father. She stopped eating and focused intently on the noises coming from the next room.

"Cathy." came the rumbling voice of Roland Banes. "Lovely home you've got."

"Well, I do try to maintain a stable environment for our daughter." came the somewhat snarking retort.

Mikaela had a sudden mental image of what was going on in there. She had seen it enough times. Her mother was dressed in a business suit, arms crossed and face daintily painted with just the right amount of make-up. She would be standing in an assertive position, challenging the one who was standing in her way. Her father wearing some battered old jacket or sweatshirt, the sleeves rolled up and his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, a smudge of black something across his cheek or forehead. He would be slouched slightly, trying to give the impression that he wasn't looking for a fight of any sort.

"Speaking of stable environments, I'm not living with my brother anymore." Roland's voice was calm. "I found an apartment here in Tranquility."

"Isn't that nice?" Cathy was still snarking.

"A two-bedroom."

"How wonderful."

"I want custody of Mikaela for her final year of high school."

The thud of Cathy dropping her satchel was loud enough to cover up the clatter of Mikaela dropping her spoon. The seventeen-year old dove for the utensil, suddenly rather full of adrenaline. She crouched on the floor, holding the spoon to her chest, and listened to the response.

Cathy's voice came back quiet but angry. "Why?"

"She's my daughter. Do I have to give a straight answer?"

"Yes! Why do you want custody? What have you done for her, other than get her thrown in juvie?! She has a record because of you!"

_That record got erased._ Mikaela thought happily. No way that thing was going to be following her around anymore. The Tranquility School Corporation almost hadn't accepted her because of it.

"Mikaela made a choice that night. I had nothing to do with it." Roland countered. "I want to spend some time with my daughter before she goes off to college. I lost six years at the Southern Nevada Correctional Facility that I'm not going to get back--"

"Who's fault is that?!" Cathy interrupted shrilly. "**You're** the one who went out stealing cars in the first place! **You're** the one who never could afford a babysitter and had to drag our daughter along for the ride! **You're** the one who corrupted her!"

"Excuse me?"

"She won't give up machines now! She comes home every night smelling like disel and oil and-- and-- and other things! Metal! I can smell it halfway across the room and it doesn't go away even after she cleans herself up! And you know why? It's your fault! If you had had any sense of priority, you never would have taken her on your little trips to that chop shop!"

"I like to think that I did Mikaela some good! She knows how to take care of herself!"

"Oh-- Oh! That's how you justify it! What are you gonna do next? Get her a tattoo? Show off how tough she is?!"

At this point, Mikaela got up from the floor and walked over to the door separating the kitchen from the main room.

"Cathy--"

"You'll never get custody! The court would never grant custody to someone with a criminal record! You're a repeat offender, Roland! They won't let it fly!"

"I think this is more Mikaela's choice than it is yours. We'll talk to her about it. If she wants to live with me, she can. It oughta be up to her."

"I'm telling you Roland--"

Mikaela opened the door and pointedly cleared her throat. Her parents suddenly fell back from each other, as if not realizing that they had been standing so close. Some time over the course of their argument, they had closed the gap. Roland was no longer standing by the door and Cathy wasn't standing near the coffee table. The woman suddenly yanked her knee-length skirt straight and retrieved her satchel.

"I -- I don't mind," Mikaela started, a little tentative. "Living with Dad again. I'd like to."

A big smile broke out across Roland's face and the frown on Cathy's became a great deal more pronounced.

"It's been six years. I wouldn't mind at all." Mikaela went on. "And he still hasn't met my boyfriend. It would be a good opportunity."

Cathy frowned a little deeper, the lines pulling on her made-up face. She would be a reasonably attractive middle-aged woman if she didn't frown so much.

"And I can keep Dad in line." Mikaela tacked on hopefully. "Y'know, make sure he doesn't fall back into old habits."

"Scout's honor." Roland said cheekily, holding up his left hand with his right on his heart. "I've done enough stealing for one life time."

* * *

"_Alright Miki, let's go over the rules one more time."_

"_Daddy! I know the rules! We've done this hundreds of times already!"_

"_I know that, little princess, but there's nothing wrong with making sure that we get it right. So... What's rule number one?"_

"'_Make sure that you have all the proper equipment with you before you head out.'"_

"_And do you?"_

"_Yep!"_

"_Let me see... Slim Jims, screwdrivers, pliers... You have everything. Good girl. Alright, what's rule number two?"_

"'_Don't let anyone see what you're doing because they won't understand it. They'll try and stop you.'"_

"_Exactly. Now what's rule number three?"_

"_'Don't get caught by the police.'"_

"_That's my girl."_

* * *

She was on her way home from work when Sam called her. Mikaela did the responsible thing and pulled over to the side of the road before taking the call, wondering what Sam had to say this time. As the primary charge of one of the Autobots (and a fairly chatty one at that), he tended to privy to information that the other Autobots would normally stay muted on. Sam was a little more up-to-date on the situation regarding the former Decepticons and he didn't hesitate to pass that information on to his friends.

"_Hey Mikaela._" Sam started once she had answered. "_I'm supposed to ask you if you'll be available for a Sunday dinner._"

"Aww, is your mom worried you're not seeing enough of me?" Mikaela teased.

"_I'm seeing plenty of you!_" Sam pointed out. "_My mom just -- wants you over for dinner again. And you don't say 'no' to my mom! She's scary when she wants to be!_"

Mikaela laughed. "Don't worry, I can make it; I never work Sundays. I'll convince my dad to come too."

"_What? No! Mikaela--!_"

"What are you worried about? It's not like he's going to knock your head off your shoulders just for dating me." Mikaela assured her suddenly mildly hysterical boyfriend. "Besides, you still need to meet him and it won't hurt for your parents to meet him either."

"_No-- no Mikaela, it's not a good idea! It's a bad idea! A bad idea!_" Sam hissed. "_Your dad absolutely cannot come over for dinner!_"

Mikaela opened her mouth to ask why not when there was an eruption of noise from the background on Sam's end of the line. She caught enough words to gather that it was his mom telling him that he was in no position to tell Mikaela that she couldn't bring her own father over for dinner and that they would be happy to have him as well.

"I think you're outnumbered, Sam." Mikaela told him as her boyfriend made a few wordless whines.

"_But it's still not a good idea._"

"Okay, why not?"

"_I think the Autobots are getting just a little __**too**__ comfortable around my neighborhood!_" Sam explained, that hysterical note rising in his voice. "_You know what happened last night? Jazz came zooming by last night! He kept blaring his radio around my house and I spent half the night apologizing to my neighbors for the noise! And then him and Bee took off and came back splattered with mud and bug guts and I don't know what! And I had to clean it up! At three in the morning! It was disgusting and it smelled bad too! I think they got sprayed by a skunk!_"

"Omigod, you are such a girl!" Mikaela said, half in exasperation, half a little disgusted herself.

But Sam wasn't done yet. "_And the toaster, Mikaela!_"

"What about it?"

"_It moved! The toaster moved! It was by the sink last night and when I got up this morning, it was by the fridge!_"

"Maybe one of your parents moved it." Mikaela suggested.

"_No! It's alive! I swear it is! It's watching me!_"

Mikaela tried to ignore the hysterical alarmist tone in Sam's voice, but she had to admit one thing. Since bringing his cell phone to life, he had been leery about touching mechanical devices, mostly because he caused them to spit sparks halfway across the room, then he would watch them warily for a few minutes to make sure that they weren't going to the route of the cell phone.

"_Mikaela, I don't want your dad to come over just in case the toaster got zapped like my cell phone!_" Sam explained. "_What if it jumps up in the middle of dinner and starts shooting up the kitchen?! What then? What are you gonna say to your dad?_"

"Sam, it'll be fine." the dark-haired teen said reassuringly. "If you zapped your toaster, well -- you would know right away, right?"

"_...Yeah..._"

"And if it jumps up in the middle of dinner and starts shooting up the kitchen, I'll tell my dad the truth."

"_**What**__?!_"

Sam must have skipped right over the voice-part of puberty, because his voice hit a note that most seventeen-year old teenage boys did **not** hit.

"Look, he wants me to move in with him for my last year of high school. He got an apartment in town and I'd love to move back in with him." Mikaela explained patiently. "And if you're going to be picking me up for school all the time, don't you think it would be better just to tell him?"

There was a hesitant silence. Sam made a few noncommittal noises.

"Don't worry, he'll love Bee. Or he'll love Bee's car-form. Anyways, my dad takes things pretty well. He's actually pretty easy-going."

"_For an ex-con?_"

"Yes Sam, for an ex-con."

Sam made a few more noncommittal noises.

"Everything will be fine. Tell your mom we'll be over at five, okay?"

They made their farewells and Mikaela got back on the road.

* * *

_The police had caught her dad. It had happened so fast. It was like they had been lying in wait for him; knowing exactly when and where he was going to strike next. He had barely jimmied open the lock on the truck when the sirens had chirped and four officers had melted out of the shadows like ninjas, their guns ready to fire if he tried to resist arrest._

_She had hidden just like he had told her to; flattened to the floor of the truck, inside the cab. She watched as they winched handcuffs around his wrists and made him sit on the curb while one of the other officers went back to the squad car to call it in. They just didn't understand what he was trying to do. They were just going to put him in jail because they thought he was doing a bad thing. _

_They were going to put him in jail._

_What would happen to her?_

_She eyed the panel in front of her, underneath the steering column. Carefully, she pried it off, making as little noise as possible. A bundle of wires sat in front of her and she grabbed the red one and the blue one just like she had been taught. With those two wires, she could trip the ignition. She took them in her hands and did just that._

_She drove the stolen car ten miles outside of Vegas before the police finally caught up and shot the tires out from underneath her._

_

* * *

  
_


	6. Toasters and Talks

**A/N:** I had the idea about the toaster long before I ever saw any previews for the second movie.

**Disclaimer:** _Transformers_ is property of HasTak and some other companies whose names elude me.

* * *

**Aftermath**

Toasters and Talks

* * *

Sam's mouth went cotton-dry when a battered, gray-white pick-up truck rolled into the driveway and came to a halt. He had been flinching at every car he had seen pass the house today, but this was the first one that had actually stopped. He could see Mikaela on the passenger's side and there was someone _big_ in the driver's seat. He could only see a few details, but enough to know that he was a stick in comparison.

Sequestered in the safety of the room, Sam checked his biceps, flexing them as much as he could. He had been doing a set of push-ups every morning, but they didn't seem to be helping any. His arms still looked as stringy as ever. He thought that he would see some difference by now.

The thudding of car doors caused him to jump right out of his skin and he nearly dove away from the window before he told himself that he was being stupid. It was just Mikaela.

And her dad.

Besides, if anything went wrong, Bee would save him.

Maybe.

Sam peered out his window at Roland Banes. That was a big man.

Still, Bee was bigger.

"LG!" Sam whipped around, suddenly remembering about the little 'bot. "LG, get out here. I need to talk to you."

There were clicking noises and then two tiny blue optics appeared over the top of the TV, high on its shelf. The micro-mech chirred questioningly.

"Look, Mikaela is over for dinner and her dad came too. **Meaning** -- you need to stay up here out of sight." Sam said firmly.

LG made a miserable beeping noise and leveled two pleading optics at the teen.

"Don't give me that look. Her dad doesn't know about you guys." Sam gestured out the window. "Bee is staying put too and if he can, so can you. Alright? Promise that you'll stay upstairs tonight."

For a moment, the micro-mech just looked like a sullen child who had just been told that a trip to the water park was out of the question before twittering affirmatively.

There was a knock on his bedroom door and Sam jumped a mile.

_Sweet cheddar-baked Jesus, Sam! Take a chill pill! _He told himself sternly. _You've got to stop freaking out! The guy does not have a gun collection and he's not going to pop your head off just because you're dating his daughter! Now get the door!_

He opened up his bedroom door. Mikaela was standing on the other side, dressed in a pair of skinny blue jeans and a rose-colored spaghetti-strap shirt.

"Ready to meet my dad?" she asked brightly.

"No..." Sam said simply.

"Sam, he's not going to kill you." Mikaela said, taking his hands. "He wouldn't have any place to hide the body anyways."

"Mikaela! Don't say stuff like that!" Sam whimpered, his mind filling with horrible images about the many different ways the man could kill him. Shotguns seemed to feature prominently. Mikaela's dad just struck him as the kind of guy who would sit on the front porch with the shotgun to scare off all the aspiring boyfriends.

"You'll be fine." she said for what felt like the thousandth time. She would admit that her dad was kind of intimidating if you didn't know him very well. The six years in jail probably hadn't helped that aspect of him.

A little reluctant, Sam followed his girlfriend down the stairs. The smell of roast and potatoes was filling the house and his stomach growled. He hadn't eaten very much all day; rather nervous about meeting his girlfriend's father. Still, the smell of dinner woke his appetite up with a vengeance.

From the living room, he could hear two voices; one of them being his father's. That meant the other belonged to Mikaela's dad. They were talking about cars; specifically the virtues of the generation of Chevy Camaros, no doubt having spotted Bumblebee in the driveway. Okay, so the two dads were getting along well enough. Now what about the dad and the boyfriend?

_For god's sake, Sam, you're not on your way to the gallows. It's just dinner with your girlfriend's ex-con dad._

The reassuring voice in his head wasn't doing a very good job at being reassuring.

Roland Banes was not an approachable-looking man, in Sam's opinion. He was tall and had same blue eyes and black hair as his daughter. His arms were thick with muscles; probably capable of bending a tree in half. A tattoo of a dragon's head started on his right arm, disappeared underneath his shirt and the tail appeared coiling down his left arm. There was another one that Sam spotted right on the back of his neck, just below his hairline. It was a symbol that he didn't recognize, but he guessed it meant something to the man.

When Roland spotted the two teens standing near the base of the stairs (Sam was **not** trying to hide behind Mikaela, really), he grinned widely and it was all Sam could do not to run for the hills.

"You must be Sam!" the older man said, looking genuinely pleased to see him, holding out his hand.

"Yeah... Hi..." Sam reluctantly shook Roland's hand and just about got his fingers broken. The man had a very strong grip.

"I've heard good things about you." Roland added. "Mikaela speaks pretty highly of you."

"Yeah..." Sam said again, quietly wriggling his fingers to make sure that he could still feel them.

Mikaela discreetly nudged him, trying to non-verbally indicate that he needed to be a little more poly-syllable in his replies.

The silence that followed was more than just a little awkward. It was that silence of two parties who didn't yet know what they had in common and what they **did** have in common was likely to be rather embarrassed about being the topic of conversation. Sam couldn't exactly say how he and Mikaela had gotten into a relationship in the first place and Roland doubted that Mikaela would take too kindly to Sam knowing the stories of her youthful misadventures. Y'know, before she had been old enough to know better.

By a stroke of luck, though, Judy had excellent timing.

"Alright everyone, dinner's ready!" she called as she came back into the living room, flapping the hot pads at them to usher them along. "Dining room, c'mon! Before it gets cold!"

The roast smelled positively divine and Sam forgot about his nerves in the face of his hunger, like any teenage boy was capable of. The seating arrangement helped a little too. Judy had whipped out the extra chairs and gave Roland the seat at the head of the table. Sam took the seat facing the door to the living room, letting Mikaela sit next to her dad and his parents on the other side.

The small talk was pretty small; a lot of inconsequential things. Things like their respective educations, hometowns, family members and maybe some of the more notable events in their lives. The little stuff people talk about when they're trying to size one another up.

There was a lull in the conversation and then Roland asked the question that Sam had been somewhat dreading.

"So Sam, how exactly did you get your hands on a 2009 Chevy Camaro?"

It was weird the way that room just tapered off into silence. Sam found all the attention focused on him. His parents were looking at him with a bit of apprehension, wondering how their son was going to explain the presence of the egregiously expensive car and not violate national security.

"Oh... I was in Mission City the same weekend it got leveled. The military sort of -- commandeered my car -- which was a '76 Camaro -- and when I saw it again, it wasn't really -- a car. More of like a -- block." Sam explained, giving the same story that he had initially given his parents. "So -- I guess the military managed to convince GM to give me a new car as compensation."

"And they gave you a 2009?" Roland raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not going to complain." Sam pointed out.

"I wouldn't. Hell of a thing to have for a first car." Roland agreed. "I remember my first car..."

Sam breathed a breath of relief. Awkward crisis successfully averted. Maybe this night wouldn't be so bad after all.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind did he hear the faint clicks of tiny metal claws on the hardwood floor. Then the familiar, crab-like form of LG leapt off the last few steps and landed splay-legged near the entrance to the dining room. Sam nearly choked on a piece of potato at the sight of the micro-mech, who had promised that he would stay hidden.

Little slagger had broken that promise!

LG didn't linger long but scurried out of sight, disappearing around the foot of the stairs. Maybe into the kitchen.

_The toaster!_ Sam realized. _Does he know something about the toaster that I don't? Was I right? Is it alive?_

_Or does he just want a snack?_

Sam had absolutely no idea what LG lived off of. He knew that the rest of the Autobots consumed energon; it was their food. Really sugary things seemed to do their holoforms the most good; something about energy conversion. But he had never seen the little cell phone mech really "eat" anything.

Maybe the micro-mech was plugging himself into the recharger every night?...

Unsuccessful in finding an excuse to get up and go to the kitchen to check on things to make sure that they weren't going to hell, Sam listened for any unusual noises from the room in question. There was nothing, to his relief, and he turned back to the conversation about first cars and driving accidents.

An electronic scream issued from the kitchen.

Both his parents jumped, Judy slopping red wine onto her skirt and Ron choking as a bit of roast went down the wrong way. Both Roland and Mikaela dropped whatever utensils they were holding. Sam jumped to his feet as something broke into bits and was halfway to the doorway that connected directly to the kitchen when something small and silver came speeding out of it so fast that his eyes couldn't exactly follow.

Then something _else_ came out.

It was another mech; about a foot and a half tall with ruby-red optics and a strangely-glowing chassis. It looked suspiciously like the toaster. That was about all that Sam saw of it before he was diving under the table after it as it tried to catch up with LG.

Roland leapt back from the table with a curiously high-pitched scream, his chair keeling over in his half-frantic flight. There were a few successive thuds as the other chairs did the same when their occupants jumped out of them.

LG came skittering out the other side of the table, darting between Roland's legs, causing the man to perform a strange little dance in order to get away from the little Autobot. Underneath the table, Sam had managed to grab a hold of the toaster's legs and was doing his best to restrain the damn thing. It kept clawing at the floorboards and making snarling noises. LG darted back towards the new mech and blew a raspberry at it before running off again.

There was silence for a moment.

"What the hell is that?!" Roland shouted, his hands gesturing to both the mobile phone and the toaster.

"Dad--" Mikaela started to tug on his arm.

"What the hell is going on?!" Roland shook his daughter off. "Where the hell did it come from?!"

Another silence, though considerably shorter than the last.

"That's what we'd like to know." Ron said while Judy nodded in agreement.

"Sammy?" she asked, eyeing her son who was still under the table.

"Uh... Sears." Sam replied, not knowing what else to say. His parents looked at him like he was nuts; not an uncommon occurrence nowadays. "It's the toaster; we got it at Sears. Mikaela, I told you that it was alive."

Mikaela was torn between wanting to respond to that and calming down her father who appeared to be on the verge of going nuclear. His face was red and the confusion was more than evident. He kept opening his mouth and then, unable to think of anything to say, closed it again. This repeated itself a few times before he turned his head to look at his daughter.

Mikaela gave a nervous grin.

"Dad," she started. "There's something I need to tell you about."

* * *


	7. PicturePerfect Proof

**A/N:** I saw the canon name for the toaster and-- I'm sorry, Hasbro, but "**Ejector**"? Seriously, would some imagination kill you? I think I'll stick with the name that I came up with, thank you very much.

**Disclaimer:** _Transformers_ is property of HasTak and some other companies whose names elude me.

* * *

**Aftermath**

Picture-Perfect Proof

* * *

Sam was beginning to wish that he had never told his parents about the Autobots.

Well, his dad was taking the whole thing fairly well; barring the moments when he would suddenly stop whatever he was doing and stare off into space for a minute or two. It was like Ron Witwicky was slowly digesting the idea of his son being friends with several giant, transforming robots from outer space. He had taken alright to the introduction to Bumblebee; after his initial: "_OH JESUS CHRIST!! WHERE'S THE RAKE?!!?_"

Judy had her baseball bat.

Ron had his rake.

In retrospect, Sam figured that he should have introduced LG first. The six inches of transforming cell phone was considerably less imposing than all eighteen feet of Bumblebee.

As for Judy... Well, Sam wondered if telling his mother about the Autobots had even been a good idea in the first place.

Especially after telling her that the Autobots were the ones who wrecked her roses. She had been less concerned by the fact her son was friends with giant robots and more fixated on the fact that said giant robots had squished her poor, defenseless flowers.

Sam had briefly entertained an image of his mother chasing around Optimus with that baseball bat of hers, whacking at his ankles.

But when it had come to telling his parents about it, Sam hadn't been all that worried (he claimed). He'd had an idea of how his parents were going to take the news; being well acquainted with their respective tempers and general outlook on life. Truthfully, they had taken it a lot better than he had thought they would. Naturally, they had freaked out a bit and had dragged him aside to talk to him, but other than that, things had settled down pretty quickly.

So when it came to telling **Mikaela's** dad...

After the incident in the dining room, Judy had been quick to whisk dinner off the table and Ron had been just as quick to whisk Roland back to the living room for a shot of something from the locked cabinet. Roland had looked awfully shaky after the quick explanation that his daughter had given him and no doubt that shot of something would help with those nerves.

Sam had whisked his girlfriend upstairs to ask her if this was really a good idea.

"Well, we don't have a choice now!" Mikaela pointed out. "He saw your little AllSpark spawn go running through the dining room! Can't exactly deny it!"

"They're not **my** little AllSpark spawn!-- Hold still you little cretin!" Sam hissed at the struggling toaster he had tucked under his arm. "Mikaela, my parents freaked out when they saw Bee and that was like, a category three freak-out. Your dad saw LG and this little slagger and he had like, a category two freak-out! How do we know we aren't going to get Mount St. Banes when he sees Bumblebee?"

"Sam, do you know the reason we can't tell my mom?" Mikaela wondered. "It's because my mom is a woman of facts. She likes things that she can see, hear, taste, touch, and smell. Solid, undeniable, _**rational**_ proof."

"Bumblebee's a fact." Sam said defensively on the behalf of his car.

"Let me rephrase that: She likes things that she can _understand_. Things she can believe in. Bumblebee is an alien and she doesn't believe in aliens." Mikaela explained. "Even if the proof comes in the form of one of those chest-busters from _Alien_, she won't believe it. She'll call it heartburn right before she dies. Trust me, that's what she would do."

"But your dad--"

"My parents have **never** seen eye-to-eye and I think that's one of the big reasons they divorced in the first place. Like I said, my dad is pretty easy-going and once he calms down, we'll take him up to the Lookout and show him Bee."

She patted him comfortingly on the shoulder and headed back downstairs to make sure that her father hadn't exploded yet. In her absence, Sam turned to the transformed toaster under his arm.

"And you." he said to it. "Exactly how long have you been hiding?"

The toaster bleeped at him. It didn't sound very polite.

"I'm taking you to see Ratchet after we're done with Mikaela's dad." Sam threatened.

It was close to dark when Roland was finally up to following his daughter and her boyfriend up to the Lookout in his truck. He had flat refused to get in the shiny Camaro if Sam was going to bring that toaster from hell with him and no one really blamed him. The Witwicky parents opted to remain behind on this one (Sam suspected that his parents were just going to avoid all the Autobots until they were given no choice in the matter).

The Lookout had long since been known as a make-out point, but today's teen couples weren't interested in parking their cars in scrub grass and dirt and shagging like rabbits. They did have a weird fascination with the backs of movie theaters and behind the public library, but not the Lookout. Plus, the rumor about roaming "ghost cars" that had no drivers had effectively driven off anyone else. So the overlook was blissfully empty when the teen couple and the trailing father arrived.

"Okay, I'll bite. What are we doing up here?" Roland asked, looking around the empty cliff side.

"Dad, don't freak out." Mikaela requested. "But Sam's toaster and his cell phone... It doesn't stop there."

"Meaning what?" Roland raised an eyebrow.

Behind the two teens, the yellow Camaro let out a noise not unlike the clicking of gears and then the metal plates began to peel back and the car took on a brand-new form. Roland just stared openmouthed at the -- robot that stood up behind his daughter (who wasn't even batting an eye). He staggered back against his truck. He opened his mouth like he was going to scream but all semblance of incoherent (or coherent) speech got lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth. He didn't make a sound.

"Dad, this is Bumblebee." Mikaela said, gesturing to the eighteen-foot robot.

For another moment, Roland was silent and unmoving. Then he reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose in an overwhelmed gesture and shut his eyes.

"The 'military-commandeering-my-car' story was a lie, wasn't it." he said to Sam.

Mikaela gave her boyfriend a look as if to say 'I told you so.'

"Yeah..." Sam gave a weak laugh. "We didn't really expect that we would have to tell you. At least, not -- tonight."

Roland heaved a sigh.

"Explain this to me; one of you."

"They're giant alien robots, Dad--"

"I can see that, but what are they doing here?"

"Well, there's two factions: Autobots and Decepticons and they've been at war--" Sam started to explain.

"There's the Neutrals too." Bumblebee interrupted and just about scaring the pants off of Roland, albeit very unintentionally.

Sam blinked. "The what?"

"The Neutrals. They sort of the unofficial third faction, but they also have a tendency to -- die. Fast." The yellow scout shrugged.

"Anyways, they've been at war and they had this thing -- the Cube -- it was called the AllSpark. It was the source of their life and it -- kind got destroyed in the final battle against Megatron, who was like the harbinger of death. He's the leader of the Decepticons. Anyways, he was after the AllSpark because he wanted to use it to convert Earth's technology and make himself a new army. But he didn't because I kind of -- shoved the AllSpark into his spark. The patterns got burned onto my hands. Look at my hands; see the sort of red marks?" Sam showed his hands to his girlfriend's father. "Ratchet -- that's their doctor -- thinks that some of the AllSpark energy leaked into my hands when it was getting destroyed and I can kind of -- bring machines to life now."

Roland looked between Mikaela and Sam, expertly skipping over Bumblebee, and then down to the toaster that Sam was still restraining under his arm.

"You mean to say -- there's more of these things?" he asked, making a vague gesture in Bee's general direction.

"A couple." Sam said. Mikaela elbowed him in the side.

"More than just 'a couple'." she corrected. "Dad, you can't tell **anyone** about this. We're taking a risk just by telling you ourselves. If word gets out--" She fished around for the right words. "It's national security! You just can't tell anyone!"

Despite Roland's horribly confused expression, he knew somewhat instinctively that spreading word of apparent alien occupation on Earth was going to cause his daughter no small amount of distress. He also had to ask himself: 'Who the hell was going to believe him?'

"Dad--" Mikaela prompted.

"Miki." Roland quickly held up a hand to stave off any questions or comments. "Can I get a day or two to think about this?"

"...Sure."

"Thanks."

And then he was back in his truck, driving away. The group waited until even the flashing red tail-lights had vanished into the darkness before speaking again.

"Well... Guess you right." Sam admitted. "He took that pretty well, considering."

"Of course he did. He had time to think about it." Mikaela pointed out. "You just _threw_ Bumblebee at your parents!"

"Sam doesn't have the sufficient muscle mass to--" Bee started, spotting what he thought was a badly-worded phrase.

"I-- eased them into it the best I could!" Sam protested, interrupting the robot. "C'mon! How are you supposed to go around telling your parents that you know giant alien robots? There's no way to do it nicely. Anyways, your dad had my parents to talk to about this. My parents had to talk to **me**."

"And that was horrible?"

"Yes! Yes it was! I was freaking out! I didn't know what to tell them!"

"And the reason you were able to get through the explanation with my dad was because you've done it once before." Mikaela pointed out.

"That still didn't make it easy." Sam pointed back. He ran his free hand through his hair. "Y'know what, never mind. We told him. He believes us, right?"

"We threw Bee at him. There was no way he couldn't believe us." Mikaela said.

"Excuse me, but I don't think--" Bee stopped and actually thought about what they were saying. He would have thought that after five years on this planet, he would have understood some of the weirder things that humans said, but knowledge and experience were two very different things.

"What?"

Both the teens were looking at him questioningly.

"Actually, never mind." Bee decided.

Five years on and humans still didn't make any sense to him.

* * *


End file.
